Making the Bed (poem)

First, the upper-left (all that was wanting
was love), and the oversized pad is soon snugged
(bounce a quarter on that bastid) smooth, taut

to the bed (you gave me); then (have drugged enough)
the bottom sheet (you gave me, too), spread smooth
to the touch (lingering, your diffident touch):
\
(Yo! and behold [yes, ecce! homini lupus])
this baying blank of our daily bread
(forever wanting what for want of you)

covered now with the two pink blankets
you also gave me (flesh oozed beneath),
and last the patchwork quilt (and the song said,

you get what) which is too small (but was free,
after all)--place the pillows back at the head.
To sleep, now, and perchance (all that was wanting

From the Dead-File (poem)

Dear Jan, as once you husband, but now perennial
lover merely (though on some distant urn
of a more distant yearning, we still bend
to love's learning,

I suppose), I propose to you a new acquaintance.
But first, let me begin to try to express
who it is I am, what I've become.  Pure chance,
you see, has pressed

and shaped the man whom you once knew and loved
so well (though, rest assured, the priapic wand
upon which you once danced, and dallied above,
still stirs to its longings,

now and then) beyond his own knowing self,
though perhaps you would know me just as well--
bah! but enough of that; the thing-in-itself
can always tell

the ultimate lie.  What I really want to say
seems impossible to mouth (though wanting for words
cannot still the urge to paint you some day
silently flourishing

for you and me, and Grace, too) without you
to cling to as it's said.  All that's left me
is the silver stud for my ear, the loud, blue,
Grateful Dead T-

shirt, a black beret, and the squinting picture
of an angry baby.  (Such frail, frail props
to hang a heart upon, this not of course to bitch
about the loss

of so much else.)  I cherish them still, for all
they speak to me in Braille.  Bah! no thimbleful
of wit can recall our one summer's slow thrall,
can it?  Yours, Michael

ps  I would propose to you a new acquaintance, love.

Epithalamium Revisited (poem)

When eye finds limbs impossibly lissome,
The blood beats to a speechless wish:
Sweet bells, this beatitude.

And yet word with word will intermingle,
Most artful twist of the act most sensual:
Sweet bells, this beatitude.


The blood beats to a speechless wish;
It sires some self beyond analysis:
Sweet bells, this beatitude. 

Most artful twist of the act most sensual,
Word turned to a touch far more tangible:
Sweet bells, this beatitude.

It sires some self beyond analysis,
A sweet amalgam, nor hers nor his:
O sweet bells, this beatitude.

Word turned to a touch far more tangible,
Our voices recline, our limbs entangle:
Sweet bells, this beatitude.

A sweet amalgam, nor hers nor his,
Two come to one, connubial bliss:
O sweet bells, this beatitude.

Our voices decline, limbs disentangle;
Heart beats more slowly, eyes would wander:
Sweet bells, this beatitude.

Two come to one?  Connubial bliss?
When eye finds limbs more freshly lissome--
O sweet bells, this beatitude.

Flying Home (poem)

we are riding

riding the black wheels singing

singing the brown cows flying

flying by

"Betty, get that kid

out of the goddamn ashtray.

If I have to stop. . . .

her hands:  pale-white,

slender birds,

gathering the gray dust,

chalking her fingers

we are speeding

speeding black wheels passing

passing black wheels leaving

leaving the high blue sky

 "Jesus Christ--can't you

keep him still?

He's driving me crazy. . . ."

her voice, small and warm:

   "Gerry, he just wants to see."

and I fold up small

in her warm arms

and at last, we are riding

riding up the narrow

steep drive to Pa

a short, fat man guarding his house

and my father grabs him--

"Papa, I've come back."

and their sun-polished stone

faces fuse together

as my father's tear washes

a single track into their golden face

"Baby, don't cry. . . ."

Double Vision (poem)

Near blind in summer's sun, we spar
     to some ancient, oedipal rhythm,
Father and son:  we joust on the hot tar,
     and rain spheres through a mystical rim.

No child of mine this immensity:
     outsized body, outrageous
And fantastic--out of breath, I see
     double, see the child that was.

Comically diminutive, perfectly small, 
     his pliable bones thin as kindling--
One quick snap, then, for the god mortal
     to test the seed once engendered.

"Give me the ball, Dad, I'm open"
     and unthinking I turn from the hoop
And wing the ball to my three-point hope--
     he grows to his height, arches, and shoots.

Those first words spoken, his being
     fleshed in a green, green idyll,
Could he see himself then come finally
     some impotent, fallen idol?